


give me more

by ivanattempts



Category: Hatoful Boyfriend
Genre: Autopsies, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Death, Decapitation, Disembowelment, Doctor/Patient, F/M, Gore, Guro, Medical Experimentation, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Necrophilia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanattempts/pseuds/ivanattempts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will never end, 'cause I want more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me more

Softness has never appealed to him; he is a man of cold steel, sharp, straight lines, a man of precision. Scalpels with their paper-thin blades, syringes filled to the brim with carefully mixed proportions of  _this_ chemical and  _that_ solution. The smell of formaldehyde lingers about him, preservatives that seep through the double-layer of latex gloves, fingers numbing through constant exposure. Softness has no place here; but it is here all the same, spread across the surgical table. One dainty ankle peeks from behind the white of the obscuring curtain as his hands move, a new glove snapping against the inside of his wrist. Her legs are smooth, all milky girl-flesh, silken to the touch. No doubt, one might once have gotten pleasure from simply trailing their fingers along the pale expanse of skin -- but that had been, perhaps, when a quick pulse might still have warmed the skin, when she might have quivered underneath such attentions. Now, now she is simply still, even as he approaches, even as he lifts that dainty ankle, so precariously dangling, and places it lightly back upon the examination table. 

How persistent the girl had been! How desperate for his attentions! So many times he had returned to the infirmary to find her lingering outside the door, or tidying inside. So many times her gaze had strayed to him, so many times her cheeks had flushed such a telling shade of red when he had met her stare. And how many warnings had he given her? How many chances to abandon this course? Surely his multiple attempts to dissuade her from pursuing his company would be considered sufficient by his peers. After all, he could hardly be blamed when it had been she that had so aggressively inserted herself into his life, despite the many chances he had given her to slip away. This was her decision, in the end; it was only when there had been no other choice, when she had stumbled upon his work with another, that he had acted. How could he be faulted for such? No; this had become inevitable the moment she had decided to involve herself with him, the moment she had been struggling against all his attempts to extricate her from his... _affairs_. 

Now look at her. ( And look at her he  _did_ , gaze level and clinical in his observation of her. )

The digital recorder makes a soft  _click_  as he moves it to the side.

"Attending physician Iwamine Shuu. Time is..." There is a brief hesitation as he glances at the clock above the table. "...ten thirty-four AM. Patient's name is Tosaka Hiyoko, aged sixteen. Time of death..." Another slight hesitation as he observes the blood still staining the otherwise sparkling linoleum, seeping into the cracks between the tiles. "...approximately ten AM. Cause of death: severing of the jugular artery." There is the soft sound of shuffling as he moves around, shining a light into her pupils. No reaction, as it should be. "Post-mortum injuries include decapitation," and if he dips a finger down to trace along, and then press  _into_ the line where her neck no longer connects, there need be none the wiser. "...and blunt force trauma." That had come about as a result of her dropping to the floor, head  _cracking_ against the cold floor. "Body temperature is now at a very reasonable..." A moment to check the thermometer he'd promptly pushed into her liver a few moments before. "...ninety-seven degrees Fahrenheit." Still warm; it wouldn't fall to room temperature for approximately ten to fourteen hours.

"As foul play is suspected," and if he chuckles, here, he covers the sound of it well with a subtle clearing of his throat. "an autopsy will be conducted."

_Click_. The soft hum of the recorder falls silent. Were this for the sake of an actual investigation, he would have kept it running. Truthfully, even that tape will likely be erased. Such a sloppy mistake, to leave things lying around -- no, such has already happened once, in the form of the ID Miss Tosaka had brought to him previously. How kind of her.

His lips quirk.

A pair of surgical scissors slip underneath the pale fabric of her uniform shirt; it parts with no resistance, falling away on either side with each motion that brings the blades together. There is the soft sound of metal meeting metal, a quiet  _clink_ as the scissors are set aside, the shirt falling away under his fingers. Her skin is bare beneath the shirt, chest still; under more ordinary circumstance, he has little doubt it would now be heaving as she shivered in girlish delight, anticipation making her tense; but as it is, she is relaxed beneath his hands as they smooth up along her stomach, tracing the shapes of her ribs beneath the skin. Her sightless eyes are fixed on some unknown point above and beyond him, a fact he takes in stride as he straightens, hands moving away just before reaching the simple bra that held her breasts in. 

"May I?"

There is, of course, no response. He takes the silence as an affirmative, anyway; a lack of protest, in this scenario, will serve as consent, even if merely a mockery of such.

The bra is removed in much the same manner as her shirt; a few simple cuts, a flick of his fingers, and it is gone. From there, his behavior becomes purely clinical -- it is with no preamble that he flips on the radio, allows it to play as he drags her skirt from her limp form, tugs the undergarments down the length of her legs, and allows them to fall, lax and open. He pays her no mind. Instead, he moves to the assorted instruments, humming along with the tune that spills from the speakers, filling the infirmary with a merry sound.

It's interrupted only by the sudden intrusion of a saw coming to life. Just a check! He places it aside, smiling to himself as he reaches for his scalpel, next. If he were to take the saw to her body as it is now, fully intact, he would undoubtedly be finding small flecks of skin littered about the infirmary for the entirety of the next school year, and he truly has no desire to create such an awful mess. At the moment, anyway.

Scalpel meets skin, and for a moment, there is nothing; as there is no beating heart to cause pressure to force the blood to well out of the body, the line is a simple, clean cut, as it should be. From clavicle to navel, he slices, and her skin separates as two halves of a stick of butter avoiding a hot knife might; just that easy, just that quick. The incisions are the easy part; he peels the flesh away with care, fingers digging into the lines the scalpel left behind, and pulling the skin back. Her body blooms beneath him, oxygen-exposed blood pooling, rigid bone protruding. Now,  _now_ he reaches for the saw, and the sound of it breaks through the music, the vibration of it numbing his fingers; it is too delicate a task for the clumsiness of his left hand, and so he transfers it to his right. It meets bone, and before long it has cleaved a path through the girl's sternum, neatly parting it.

Next comes a retractor, slipped between the two halves of her sternum; with a bit of force, they split, and he smiles at the sharp  _crack_ of bone shifting in the cavity of her chest. 

Were he more of a romantic, the sight of a human heart stilled under the impersonal fluorescent lights might have inspired some sense of poetic sadness -- as it is, he regards it quietly for but a moment, before shifting. One knee finds the edge of the examination table, and with a bit of pressure, he lifts himself onto the table. It's easy enough to straddle her, settle onto his knees, to hover over her. His coat bunches around his thighs, catches in the crease of his legs, but he doesn't mind. It takes slightly more effort to move once more, to lower himself down; his breath ghosts across her skin, warm compared to the chill of the infirmary, not that she will notice. 

Is this what she had wanted? He wonders. How might her heart have quickened in pace had he done this to her while she still had breath in her lungs? 

Her heart...his eyes fall to it, and his head tips, lowers. Lips part to make way for a tongue, two muscles meeting. There is the sharp tang of copper on his tongue as it slides across the surface of the girl's heart, the tender, vulnerable flesh. There are pits and bumps where arteries curve, where pumps pump no more. Blood coats his lips as he nibbles, catching at it with his teeth, but not breaking it, not biting any off.

Perhaps later.

Instead, he releases it, lets it slip back into place, lets his tongue smooth across the uneven surface, before leaning back up, away from the dormant muscle. A hand moves to wipe the blood from his mouth, a red smear across pale flesh, across blue latex. His hands fall into her open stomach, sliding down into the winding mass of her lower intestines; they're slick in his hands, and they come free easily, lifting out with no resistance. One hand holds them aloft, fingers of his other hand stroking along the tube, all the way down, admiring the way it connected. The human body really was a wonderful thing!

Her intestines fall carelessly back into her body, now a heap, rather than a carefully arrayed system. There is some difficulty in removing himself from his position atop her; old aches and pains plague him, but he moves slowly, carefully, and it is not long before he's on his feet again. His gloves come off with a smart  _snap_ , and he discards them into the bin next to the examination table. It would be quite easy to finish the examination at the moment, but he seems to have lost interest in her  _body_ for the moment; instead, his attention turns to her head.

Softness has never appealed to him, but it doesn't stop him from admiring the healthy feeling of her hair between his fingers, the strands sliding easily as he moves his hand to grasp her head by the hair; blood drips sluggishly from the hole in her neck, and he carries her to his desk, sitting her on his lap. His fingers brush the hair back from her face, his own head tipping lightly as he tucks the loose strands behind her ears. She had been pretty, in her own way. It's an aesthetic observation; he can recognize that she would, once, have been considered  _pretty_ , even if he has little care or concern for the word himself. His thumb trails over her lower lip, and he sighs.

There is a pressing ache that he has been ignoring up to this point, but with the weight of her head pressing down against him, he can hardly ignore it any longer. A shift of his hip has him grinding up against her; dark blood stains the front of his pants, but the friction is  _delicious_. 

Soon, he's freed himself from the constraining fabric, and there is skin against his skin, still warm, still pliant, and wonderfully slick; his lip curls only slightly. It's  _unsanitary_ , but doubtlessly satisfying -- and the hole situated in her throat is too tempting to ignore. 

_Oh_ , how easily she slips down over him; her throat is tight around him, and he reclines back in his chair, eyes half-lidding as he watches the way it pushes down over the length of him. Her thin neck bulges slightly with the pressure from within, and he strokes a hand along what little of it remains, a smile tugging just at the corner of his lips. A bit more pressure on the top of her head, and he grinds up against her, a soft sound leaving him; a simple tug at her hair has her head sliding back up, and he hums, a low and pleasant rumble in the back of his throat. From there, the pace quickens; it's easy to relax and simply pull her up, push her down, but he can't help the way his hips occasionally buck up to push him  _deeper_. 

It feels -- good. And if he had known, before, just  _how_ good, the girl's head might not have remained attached for as long as it  _had_. But he has her now, and that's what matters.

His breath leaves him in a rush as he feels the muscles in his lower abdomen begin to tense, feels heat pool low in his gut; his thoughts begin to scatter, and he shudders, pressing down hard on her head and pushing himself as far into her as he possibly can, a shiver making its way down his spine. He throbs, grinds into her, and after a breathless moment, comes with a quiet moan, eyes screwed shut, glasses just slightly askew.

After a few moments, his breath steadies out and he opens his eyes, stroking his fingers idly through her hair, petting at her softly. She is removed from him with a gentle tug, and he leans further back in his chair, lifting her up above him, staring up at her lax, open features, and smiling.

"Perhaps I could learn to love you yet, Miss Tosaka."

He brings her down, meets her lips with his own, and licks his way into her open mouth; he tastes himself there, mixed with blood.

Perhaps he could learn, indeed.


End file.
